Darkness Bound
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Last seen blinded and bleeding, what happened to everyone's favorite rogue CIA agent after the events of OUATIM? Rated for bad language, gore, mayhem, and creative sportsmanship. Prequel to Clockwork Mexico. Enjoy! COMPLETE!
1. Day of the Dead

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.   
  
A/N: The comment about Sands's ex-partner grew into a completely different story, which I may offer up if this is well received. What can I say, Sands fascinates me!

* * *

**1. The Day of the Dead**  
  
The man in black with blood on his face knew the sun was beating down upon him, but no ray of it penetrated his brain. Or his soul. The darkness was absolute. He was shivering--that would be shock, he knew all too well--and the wall behind him was the only thing holding him up.   
  
"Are you going to be all right?" asked a childish voice.   
  
Stupid fucking kid, with four bullet holes in me and no eyes, do I look all right? "I don't know," he answered curtly.  
  
"You will be, senor," said the chicle kid.  
  
The blind man swallowed hard. The stink of cordite was still strong in the November air, although the sounds of fighting were growing more distant. "You have to take me somewhere."   
  
"Where?"  
  
"Someplace close by where I can sit down. Where I can stay for a while. No people. No doctors." One of them did this to me, I'll be damned if I'm letting any more of them get a crack at me. Especially since I don't know what happened to Guevara. For all I know, they've pressed him into service on account of this coup.... "And let's hustle. Andale...."   
  
The kid was silent for a moment. The wounded man didn't hear him move away. He waited, not daring to show his impatience. "I know somewhere!" Chicle sounded triumphant. "It's not far, Senor."

His legs protested; two wobbly steps and fell against the wall, hard. Hanging on with his good arm, he managed to make it back to vertical. "Which way?" he gasped.   
  
As the boy guided him, the wounded CIA agent counted each step. From their starting point at the center of the city, it was four hundred, eighty-six steps to the door of his hiding place. Of course, his steps were short and halting because of his injuries and he lost count at least once, but it wasn't more than a couple blocks from their starting point. There was at least one alleyway involved; he could reach out and touch the far wall---there was the possibility of an ambush, but it was hard to feel fear. Hurting as badly as he was, he was tempted to sit down for a smoke and not get up, just lie there, bleed and fade away.   
  
"Here it is, senor." The boy pushed at a door that opened with a rusty squeal. Sands felt old, splintered wood beneath his hand.   
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"A garage, senor, but there is no car. The people don't come back here anymore because they are old. Their garden is all overgrown, you can't see here from the house. Here, there's a chair in the corner." Sands dropped into the worn armchair with a grunt of pain. Okay, pain might not be the right word for it, pain was a puny description of his agony--hell, agony didn't do it justice. Hell, though, was getting close.   
  
"Okay, I need you to help me get some stuff. From the drugstore. El pharmacia, understand?" His breathing was labored, and he hoped like hell he wouldn't have to repeat himself. Slowly, he explained what he was going to need, and gave the kid most of the money he had left.   
  
God, to think just yesterday he'd expected to be 20 million pesos richer by this time and on his way out of this sorry country forever. Nope, just another example of a beautiful woman completely fucking up his life. Hell, he never would've landed in this situation in the first place if it wasn't for his ex-partner's sexual harassment charges. Goddamn psycho bitches. Women just couldn't be--  
  
"Senor! Senor!"  
  
Sands groggily realized that the kid was back. He must've been out of it for a while. Not good. "Did you get my stuff?"   
  
"Si." He could hear things thunking together as the kid set down a box. "Hy-dro-gen per-ox-ide...al-co-hol, anti-biotic capsules, tablets of as-pirin and co-deen. Bandages. Gauze."   
  
"Money well spent," the agent sighed.   
  
"No, senor. The pharmacia was open, but there was no one there because of the fighting. I took what you told me to get. I got all I could carry." The boy fumbled the handful of bills into the man's shirt pocket.   
  
"What's your name, kid?"  
  
"Manolo."  
  
"You're a good kid, Manolo. Now, I need to get myself fixed up. You'll have to do some of it, especially if I pass out." He waited for an answer. The kid was probably standing there nodding at him like an idiot.  
  
"What do you need me to do, senor?"   
  
"My name is Sands. First of all, help me get my shirt off." He talked the kid through the procedure, first on his arm, then the side wound, and finally the leg injuries. "Now, clean your hands with the alcohol. Pour the peroxide right on the wound, that's it. Open a couple of those antibiotic capules and pour the contents directly---damn, that burns. God, I didn't think it could hurt any worse. Pack the hole with gauze, wrap the bandages around it to hold it in place. Okay, that's it, quick and dirty. It'll do for now."   
  
The arm wound wasn't too bad; it hurt like a motherfucker, but the bullet hadn't stayed in and once Manolo rinsed off the old blood, he reported that it was already showing signs of clotting. His left thigh still had the bullet inside, but Sands was reasonably sure it hadn't hit bone. He'd lost enough blood, amateur surgery would be too risky. The right leg had entry and exit wounds and was a bitch to clean. The side wound was still seeping blood, but just a little, Manolo said. That concerned him; it could mean he was bleeding internally. Still, it was too low to have hit a lung. His knowledge of anatomy was fair; he knew his liver was on the other side and from the angle, he was fairly certain his kidneys had escaped.   
  
After tending those injuries, he pulled his tattered garments back on and steeled himself for the worst. His clothing was filthy with blood and dirt--also not good, he knew--but he was so cold from the loss of blood that he didn't dare not wear it.   
  
"I'll do this part," Sands said. He carefully placed his sunglasses in his shirt pocket, finding a grim amusement in the habit. Manolo gave a horrifed gasp when the glasses came off. Sands braced himself as Manolo dribbled isopropyl alcohol over his hands. He'd picked a helluva day to go out without a spare pair of rubber gloves. "Peroxide."   
  
He found himself ironically remembering a discussion during his long-ago training that had mentioned hydrogen peroxide as a method of blinding someone. "That's why it's a bad idea for head injuries," the instructor had advised them.   
  
Well, he couldn't make it any worse than it already was, could he? He carefully daubed the dried blood on his face. "Did I get it all?"   
  
He heard a faint "Si" from several yards away. "Good." He hesitated, then tilted his head back and poured peroxide into the first cavity. The peroxide bubbled and foamed up; he turned his head and let it drain out, then repeated the procedure on the other side. He did it several times, until the bottle was empty. He tried to think of it as putting in eyedrops, but applying a post-cannabis dose of Visine is a lot different from having peroxide fizzing in your empty eye sockets.   
  
"Take the powder out of five--cinco--capsules and put them in here." He held out the cap of the peroxide bottle. As soon as Manolo gave it to him, he tapped it into the hole. A sound like a sob escaped his throat. "Five more for the other side."   
  
When he could speak again, he asked, "Are they still bleeding?"   
  
"No, Senor Sands."   
  
"Okay. I'm just going to wrap them, no use packing them. Look, one more thing. Just one. Can you get me a blanket? Here, take this--" As he reached for the wad of bills, he heard sneakered feet moving rapidly toward the door, then the hinges brayed and the door slapped shut behind Manolo.   
  
"Oh, that's just great," he muttered in disgust. "Scared the little turd off."   
  
He leaned back in the ratty old armchair. There was a sound of distant gunshots--the fading echoes of the failed coup--a siren, roaring its way to or from someone else's tragedy. The roll of gauze bandage lay on his lap. He picked it up, then put it down again. Now that he was alone, he had to know.... His searching fingers found his cheekbones where they'd always been. Not far away, his brows were intact. Between the two areas, the landscape had changed. What was left of his eyelids were torn and swollen. There was nothing between the two spaces; he probed for a moment, then leaned over the arm of the chair and retched.   
  
Flames stabbed his torso. Caught between pain and panic, he managed to stay conscious. "Oh, fuck!" he said quietly to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He repeated the word like a mantra. "I am sincerely fucked up." The two new holes in his head were throbbing. His side had a rhythm of its own. His arm pulsed. His left leg was almost numb, unless he even thought about moving it---in which case, it hurt like everything else. The entrance and exit wounds on his right leg screamed in stereo.  
  
He found the final bottle, the one that was still sealed, and pulled the clump of cottom out of the neck. Tablets, as he'd requested. Maybe not a great idea on top of any residual shit he might have in his system from Barillo's torture cocktail, but the pain overruled his caution. He swallowed four of them dry, gagging, but keeping them down by an effort of will.   
  
On his empty stomach, they hit him like a ton of bricks. Inside of five minutes, he was snoring.


	2. On the Third Day

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: Sands strikes me as the kind of man who's going to get the job done, regardless, whether it's plotting a coup or surviving its aftermath. Not for the weak of stomach!

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**2. On the Third Day**  
  
There were nightmares, of course, and he woke to find the biggest nightmare was true. For a minute, he wasn't entirely sure if he was awake or asleep--it was completely dark, and he was confused. Then the pain bore down on him from all sides. His right leg felt like it was caught in a bear trap. The left leg was pulsating, but less severely. His side was radiating hot pain. The worst agony came from his head, which felt like it was going to implode. Oddly enough, it wasn't his vacant sockets that hurt, it was everything around them. From his brows, to his temples, to his cheekbones, everything throbbed. Even the sound of his own ragged breathing hurt.   
  
The pain, horrible as it was, was real. He anchored himself to it. It kept him afloat while he made himself relive the events of November second. All of them. So here he was, completely, totally, permanently blind, trying to survive multiple gunshot wounds without medical attention in an abandoned Mexican garage. "Helluva way for a nice Jewish boy from Boca Raton to wind up," he muttered hoarsely. "Hey Dad, is it too late for me to finish med school and join the practice?"   
  
Probably delirious, he thought. But he'd stopped shivering. He was warm, not freezing to death. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? Moving his right hand cautiously, he realized for the first time that he'd been covered with one or more blankets.   
  
His left arm grumbled sharply as he explored his other wounds. It was by far the least annoying of his injuries. He was surprised that there was no indication of fresh bleeding from his eyes. The way it felt, he thought his brains would be leaking out of his head. The bandages covering the side wound were damp, but not soaked. The fact that he'd awakened at all probably meant that any bleeding was relatively minor. If he'd been hemmorhaging internally, he'd be dead by now.   
  
The left thigh, the one with the bullet still in it, was swollen badly. His tight-fitting pants felt like a sausage casing that was going to burst. If the rest of the bleeding stayed minimal, he might have to resort to amateur hour; losing a leg or dying of gangrene was not on his agenda. The left leg hurt worse, but it didn't seem to be as swollen.   
  
Memories of first aid training reminded him that raising his legs would help. Ideally, he should be lying down, but unless God, Who didn't seem to be too helpful lately, had sent him a recliner...he leaned back in the chair, pushing down on the armrests, and was amazed to feel an old mechanism trying to work beneath him. He'd never realized how many muscles it took to get a recliner to recline. His arm protested, his side lanced a sharp bolt deep into his gut, and both legs howled at his attempt to flex them.   
  
The footrest banged into something at his feet, and he investigated. There were two gallon jugs, still sealed, and Sands realized Manolo had brought water. There was also a bucket with a long funnel. He had stray thoughts about adding transmission fluid, and the fact that he'd never drive a car again. A funnel? He was nonplused until his bladder gave him a hint.   
  
"Kid's a genius," he thought, grateful that he wasn't faced with the choice of get up or piss himself. He carefully relieved himself, funneling his urine into the bucket. Too bad he didn't have any way to tell if there was blood in it.  
  
Finding the alcohol bottle, he cleansed his hands and opened one of the jugs. The water was room temperature--warm, bordering on hot--but to his dry throat and empty stomach it was nectar. From donating blood, he remembered advice: drink extra liquids, and hoped the kid would be back before the supply ran out. Locating the pain pills, he downed four more with more gulps of the water. He didn't know how long since the last dose, but judging by the pain, long enough. He leaned back in the recliner, head aching, hoping the pills would kick in fast.   
  
I have no eyes. The thought echoed through his skull. Blind was a bland word to convey the emptiness he felt. Eternal darkness. Endless night. No sunrise, sunset, no stars, no heavenly bodies. No bulbs, fluorescent or incandescent, neon or LEDs. No lamps, not Tiffany or lava, or Waterford chandeliers. No more headlights, taillights, turn signals, traffic lights or blue light specials. If he could limp into the Cathedral and light a candle, he would not see its glow.   
  
"I'm getting maudlin," he told himself. Was there a bright side he could look on? (In a matter of speaking?) He could cancel his magazine subscriptions--he'd save a couple hundred bucks a year on porn alone--damn, no more Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. No more centerfolds. He'd have to cough up for lap dances at titty bars instead of drinking and staring. At the thought of a woman's reaction to his eyeless condition, his heart sank. Damn, it was really going to suck if his last piece of ass had been that cartel whore who'd scorned and maimed him.   
  
Well, at least he'd had the last word. He was still among the living, and he intended to stay that way. Okay, things were going to be--different. He could still live by his wits.   
  
He awoke again to the sound of mariachi music coming softly from nearby--it was still dark--it would always be dark--for a moment, he half-expected to hear that hired gunman, El, taunt him--then there was a crackle of static, and he realized it was a radio tuned to a music station. "Manolo?" he said aloud.   
  
Not a peep. But the kid must've been here; the radio was proof of that. He groped around beside the chair after tending his wounds. Several more jugs of water had joined the first one, and the slop jar had been emptied. He found a paper bag, which yielded several candy bars--melted--and what felt like a bag of beef jerky.   
  
Fumbling among the pharmaceuticals, he found an unfamiliar bottle and opened it cautiously. The smell was familiar--some kind of multi-vitamin. Hopefully, it had iron--anything to help counter his blood loss. Crossing his fingers that something else hadn't been stashed there by mistake, he swallowed one of the pills. Yech, it sure tasted like a real vitamin. It was definitely time for more codeine, too. He did the math: a hundred pills in the bottle, four at a time--that was twenty-five doses, but he didn't know how often he'd been dosing himself. Better pay attention to the radio, he could keep track--time wavered and disappeared again.  
  
The next time he regained consciousness, with an agonizing start upright, he knew there was someone else in the immediate area. "Senor Sands?" He relaxed slightly at the sound of Manolo's hesitant voice.   
  
"How long--what day is it?" he demanded, feeling just as shitty as he had the last time he'd awakened.   
  
"It's been three days."   
  
"Okay, we'd better take another look at things." He grimaced at his choice of words. Words like "look" and "see" were suddenly someone else's verbs, not his. He reached for his shades, but they weren't there. "My eyes--tell me if you see any sign of infection. Are they swollen, is there yellow or green stuff anywhere? Has there been any more bleeding?"  
  
"No, Senor Sands," the boy whispered. His voice came from an arm's length away.   
  
"No what?" he demanded, frustrated.   
  
"The blood is old and hard," Manolo said simply.   
  
"Let's keep it that way," Sands said. "Hand me the peroxide." He repeated the ritual with the peroxide and antibiotics. This time the burning was less severe.   
  
His left arm was stiff, but bearable, and he wasn't surprised to be informed that it, too, was healing. Gingerly, he brought the recliner fully upright, and hauled himself to his feet, swaying. "Senor!" Manolo was alarmed. There was some kind of counter or workbench to his left, and he leaned on it, peeling off his filthy shirt. He pulled the dressing away from his ribs and felt something liquid trickle down his side.   
  
"Manolo? What's this?"  
  
"It's yellow, Senor Sands."  
  
"Not good," he said, thinking, maybe I should've cauterized the damn thing. Trying to get his boots off defeated him. He almost fell over trying to get them off so he could remove his pants. Perching on the edge of the recliner, he slid the knife out of his right boot and used it to hack off his ruined slacks. Sitting there in his boxers (Had he worn "Home of the Whopper" or the Scooby-Doo pair that day?--he couldn't remember), he tugged the wrappings from his leg wounds, panting from the pain.   
  
The right leg still hurt like hell, but the smell of the other bandage told him where the real problem was. "There are lines on your leg, red lines," Manolo confirmed.   
  
"Here, put this in the alcohol for a while," Sands said, handing over the knife. "As soon as we take care of the rest of these, we're taking that bullet out. Is my other leg bleeding?"  
  
"A little bit. There's a little yellow spot." The agent squeezed the area Manolo indicated, and encouraged drainage. Today, he felt decidedly hot, rather than cold--a fever, like he didn't know already that he had at least two infected wounds. He had the kid douse his hands with alcohol as soon as he'd finished.   
  
Assured by Manolo that there was ample medicine--he'd made a second trip to the empty pharmacy--Sands rinsed the side wound out several times, and poured in an even dozen of the penicillin caps. Good thing he wasn't allergic.   
  
"Now it's gonna get messy," he said, as much to himself as to the kid. There was a gout of fluid as he dug the knife into the wound, and Sands froze as he felt the tip of the knife come into contact with the slug. For a moment, he couldn't move; then he commanded his hands to work and slid the blade until it was to one side of the pellet. When he was sure the blade was in deeper than the slug, he twisted the knife like a corkscrew and yanked upward.   
  
Manolo had the bucket ready; Sands felt the rim of it against his neck as he vomited. There was nothing but bile in his stomach to lose, but his side protested the effort. Let it; that might help get the rest of the crap out of there. Yeah, the leg was bleeding again, naturally, but if it helped get rid of the infection, fine. "That's not spurting blood, is it?"  
  
"Que?"   
  
Oh, hell, it probably wasn't his femoral artery.... His hands were shaking too badly to continue. "Take over, kid," he said wearily. "Alcohol on your hands first."  
  
"Here is your bullet." A small lump of metal found its way into his hand. Awfully small to cause so many problems....  
  
Manolo baptised his wound with the peroxide and Sands lost count of the number of capsules that were consigned to the newly reopened hole. At last, it was packed and bandaged. "What time is it?" the blind man asked.   
  
"Late afternoon, senor. Almost sunset."  
  
"Can you come in the morning, for more bandages?"  
  
"Si, I will try."  
  
When the boy left the garage, Sands was dosed with more antibiotics by mouth, painkillers, and the vitamins, which he was grimly amused to be told were special maternity vitamins with lots of iron, according to the label Manolo translated for him. The kid didn't know dietary iron from wrought iron; they were left over from his aunt's last pregnancy.   
  
His wounds had improved slightly by the next day, though he was still running a fever. Although still warm, Mexico in November wasn't enough to account for the sweat that rolled down his body. 


	3. Immersion

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: A little background on Sands. Signs of a change of heart -- well, kind of. This IS Sands we're talking about!

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3. Immersion  
  
It was two more days until the fever broke. Sands lived a light-headed routine of wound cleaning, chicken soup straight from the can, and carefully scheduled pills for several more. After ten days, he quit the painkillers entirely. There were some left, but he refused to let himself drift away on some chemical cloud. Plain old aspirin as needed, and he tried to limit that, belatedly remembering that they'd interfere with blood clotting.   
  
Sands wasn't quite sure if he'd adopted Manolo, or if Manolo had adopted him, but the kid was there almost every day, sometimes skipping school if Sands needed something done. The story about supporting his family by selling bubble gum was phony--Manolo lived with an aunt and uncle, and every week, his uncle gave him a box of gum from his news stand, and now, sold him cigarettes for his American friend. His mama was dead--he couldn't remember her--and his papa was in jail for stabbing someone in a knife fight. There were two cousins littler than him--girls--but they liked girlie things and didn't bother him too much.   
  
Manolo brought him food and water, clean shorts, and he was tolerable for company, when he was around. His childhood was far different from the agent's--Sands clearly remembered his mother's death when he was eight--his father the bigshot plastic surgeon never had any legal troubles aside from the usual malpractice hassles, but he hadn't exactly been there, either, had he? His dad's new trophy-wife--his stepmother--already had two daughters older than Sheldon, and wasted no time presenting Dr. Sands with a baby boy to secure her status. Lenore had favored her daughters, Dr. Sands had discovered renewed youth through his infant son, and young Sheldon was forgotten in the background. He'd retaliated by becoming moody and withdrawn--or, when he had to interact with people, as obnoxious as possible. Being obnoxious wasn't such a good strategy now, though, and he found himself biting back his habitual repartee. When had it gotten to be quite so habitual?  
  
A few short weeks ago, he'd've recoiled in horror at the idea of spending an afternoon listening to a young boy ramble on about a fishing trip with his uncle. Now, it was the most interesting diversion he had. (He'd finally gotten so sick of mariachi music that he unplugged the radio.) It was easy to find life's pleasures when everything was stripped to its essentials: the modest meals Manolo brought him, the sweetness of birdsong in the overgrown garden outside, the rich fragrance of a gardinia bush drifting in through the window. His remaining senses delighted in their newfound awakening, as if long overwhelmed by visual stimuli.   
  
As the fourth week flowed into the fifth, Sands awoke from a doze to hear voices coming closer. He palmed his knife and listened tensely. Two---no, three male voices, probably teenagers...subject under discussion, a place to get stoned. And they were headed for the garage, by the sound of it.   
  
The door swung inward, there was a scuffle of feet, a yell, echoed by another, more scuffling, and the door banged closed again. "What, what?" the third voice was saying.  
  
"There's a dead guy in there!" one of the others was saying.   
  
"Oh come on, you were in there for two seconds, how do you know he's dead?"  
  
"Cos he's all dried up like a skeleton and something ate his eyes!" The kid sounded hysterical, and Sands almost laughed outright. "Vamanos!" The boys retreated, and Sands smirked.   
  
Slowly, his amusement died. He knew he'd dropped some weight, between the scanty meals and his precarious physical condition, but only now that it had been called to his attention did he inventory how many of his ribs he could count. Wasting away? Had he survived his wounds only to let himself die a slow death by apathy? Not fucking likely! How much longer was Sheldon J. Sands going to hole up, licking his wounds like a frightened animal? When was he going to strike back?   
  
He rose and paced the shed. By now, its dimensions were engraved on his muscles; three steps to the wall across from the chair, or eight steps the long way. Apparently, he looked pretty scary without the shades. That could work to his advantage for intimidation and/or shock value. First, though, he'd get cleaned up, get some real clothes. Five weeks of sitting around in his shorts was enough. He really needed long, hot bath, a shave, and he craved a big plate of puerco pibil. If it was good enough, he might plant a wet, sloppy kiss on the cook.   
  
Manolo knew of a cheap hotel that rented rooms by the hour. Since Sands's cheif interest was in hot water and a tub, hourly was fine by him. It wasn't until they were crossing the lobby, his hand on Manolo's shoulder, that a coarse comment from the desk clerk made him realize what they looked like. Sands clenched his teeth against sudden rage.  
  
"Don't let anybody past you," Sands told the kid as he entered the bathroom upstairs, intended to be shared by the whole floor. "Anybody that walks in that door is gonna get smoked.'  
  
"Si, Senor Sands." As soon as the door closed behind him, it rattled slightly as Manolo sat down with his back to it.   
  
He scoped out the layout of the room and arranged his toiletries accordingly. It seemed incredible that something as ordinary as taking a bath had assumed such epic proportions. He immersed himself chest deep in the steaming water. Hot water...had there ever been a time when he'd taken hot water--hell, running water!--for granted? A simple detail like being clean...when had he last been clean? Physically or spiritually?   
  
Somewhere in Culiacan, the shadowy room he saw in his nightmares was still lit with a single, unshaded bulb, and beneath its light, people did unspeakable things. Guevara's shiny device still whined, the lights still went out for how many innocents? Sands didn't count himself as an innocent. He had truly seen too much for that. But very few people lived the life he had lived; they were creatures of the light who needed protection from the darkness and those who would bring it to them.   
  
During the long, sybaritic ritual, cleansing himself meticulously from head to toe, Sands felt more than one kind of soil slipping away. Pain and suffering, privation--nothing in his past life had prepared him for the last month. It seemed like a wholly different plane of existance, and the loss of his eyes alone didn't account for the difference. His own mistakes had brought him to a crossroads, but the cartel's actions had set him on a road from which there was no return. The indecision that had dogged him was gone; a new resolve possessed him. Barillo's organization couldn't be allowed to re-form. Culiacan was going to stay a cartel-free zone, and he was going to be the man who kept it that way--whatever it took. Not as a company man--there was no way in hell they'd take him back in his condition--but with his own brand of justice, with all the deadly skills the company had forged in him.   
  
Could he do it alone? His conclusion, reluctantly, was no. Not even with Manolo's help--even if he wanted to risk the boy, he was far too young and completely untrained. It would be easy for Manolo to overlook some slight but crucial detail that would cost their lives. No, for this he was going to need help, professional help. Not from the company; he'd already reached that conclusion. Reviewing the individuals he knew who were up to the task, one stood out, and sitting there in the slowing cooling water, cigarette dangling from his lips, Sands felt a spasm of dread.   
  
The immaculately groomed man who strode through the lobby at three PM bore little resemblance to the scruffy deviant who'd entered two hours before. Only the sunglasses and his companion were the same. "Wait for me outside," he said to the boy as they reached the door. He turned to his left and strolled toward the front desk.   
  
"Like the sign says, no refunds," the clerk said in a bored tone, and Sands heard the rustle of a newspaper's pages. "I don't care if you did pay for three hours."   
  
Sands held up his key. "Checkout time." As the other man reached for the key, Sands raised his pistol and fired a single shot. He heard the man drop; there were a few spastic twitches, and the unmistakable sound of a final exhalation.   
  
"If you're so worried I'm a pervert, fuckmook, then you shouldn't've rented me a room." Turning on his heel, Sands counted his steps back to the door and pushed it open.   
  
"Where now, Senor?" Manolo greeted him.  
  
"To lunch. Take me to Tarantula Azul."   
  
On the way there, Sands purposely bumped into several people until he found one who had what he wanted: a cell phone. Swiping it deftly, he allowed Manolo to lead him to the restaurant. 


	4. Hail Mary

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: I'm fond of Milton, but it seems the only thing of his anyone knows is that tired old bit about reigning in Hell vs. serving in Heaven. This seemed more appropriate.

The line about memory instead of a view is, of course, from "The Silence of the Lambs". Hmm, wouldn't that be a scary crossover....?

* * *

**4. Hail Mary**  
  
Thoughts of the call he needed to make took some of his appetite from the pibil. Afterward, he had Manolo guide him to the plaza, and find him a doorway where he couldn't be approached unaware. "Here, go get yourself some ice cream. I've got to do this." Sands stood, holding the phone and steeling his nerves. Finally, he activated the device and dialed a number from memory.   
  
"Millenium Consulting."   
  
It was too late to hang up. "Institute Sierra-Tango protocols," he said quietly.   
  
"One moment." There was a click on the line. The connection hummed for a moment. Sands heard the faintest electronic beep, and the curiously hushed tone of a secured line. "Go ahead."  
  
"Do you know who this is?"   
  
"A dead man, or so I've heard."  
  
"I need your help." Possibly the hardest sentence he'd ever spoken in his life.   
  
"When and where?"  
  
"Culiacan, Mexico. The rose garden at the Cathedral of St. Martin, 1500 hours, day after tomorrow.  
  
"Confirm. Culiacan, Mexico. Rose garden, Cathedral of St. Martin. 1500 local, Monday."  
  
The line went dead, and Sands found himself sweating. God, what had he just done? Set loose something that could just as easily go for his throat...unless he could somehow convince it otherwise. He wiped his fingerprints from the stolen phone and chucked it into a trash barrel as Manolo led him away.  
  
On Monday, Sands arrived at the Cathedral an hour after morning mass. There was a window in the choir loft where Manolo could keep watch on the rose garden to see if anyone arrived early. "Anyone here?" he asked the boy as they entered.  
  
"Only a grandmother, praying by Santa Barbara."  
  
Sands went forward along the left hand wall to the frontmost pew. As he passed what must be the statue of Saint Barbara, he heard a rattle of beads and a whisper of prayer. His only prayer was to survive the next few hours.   
  
Memories...what he had now instead of a view. Where had he heard that before? Since he'd made his phone call, memories had threatened him, day and night. His thoughts cycled from recent events in Culiacan to long ago events in Greece--betrayal, torture, threats, helplessness--he swallowed. Behind him, the old woman moved to the next statue and lit a candle--he heard the match strike as she did so. Maybe he could ask her to say a prayer for him.  
  
This was the best way. The only way. He'd explain about Barillo and the cartel that was trying to move in in his wake--he'd managed to learn a few things about it in the last couple days, and that no one local was going to interfere with them--damn it, he was Special Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency, why the hell was this scaring him so damn much?   
  
Because, he reminded himself grimly, I'm flying solo now. I don't have the company to back me up. And I'm waiting to meet with someone much crazier than I am, who hates my guts.   
  
Another match, closer still, and another beaded prayer.   
  
Caution is sensible, Sands, but if you were cautious, you'd've thought of another way. Like what? Some other way to set up those shapes for a fall....   
  
A soft rustle of fabric alongside him, and the sound of a candle being lit in the niche across the aisle from him. Then a calm voice, neither Mexican nor anyone's grandmother, spoke: "Hail Mary, full of grace, pray for us sinners and keep your hands where I can see them, or this will be the hour of your death."   
  
Sands froze, outmaneuvered. Without saying a word, he slowly, slowly raised his hands and removed his sunglasses. He turned his head fractionally to the left, allowing the newcomer to see what they had concealed.   
  
There was a creak from the pew behind him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as that resonant voice recited. "If thou beest he--but oh, how fallen, how changed, from him, who in the happy realms of light, cloth'd in transcendant brightness didst outshine myriads, though bright...." In a more conversational tone, his tormentor continued, "That's describing Lucifer after his fall from heaven. Paradise Lost, by John Milton...a blind poet. You think you have the right to ask for my help? Tell me everything."   
  
Taking a deep breath, Sands told. El Mariachi and Marquez, the attempted coup, Barillo and Agent Ramirez, Cucuy, Belini and finally, Ajedrez and the last things he'd ever see.   
  
"And you want what from me, exactly?"  
  
"There's a new organization trying to rise up. I want it put down for good. I want to set an example. Culiacan is going to be off limits to the cartels. I can't do it alone."  
  
"Why me?"  
  
"Because I know you'll do whatever it takes to get the job done. I know you'll see it coming." Sands's tongue was a dry leaf in his mouth. It was all said now, and he waited for judgement.   
  
Movement behind him, and a question, breathed close to his ear. "Do I frighten you, Lucifer?"  
  
"Yes." Sands heard himself say.  
  
"Good."  
  
Something thudded against the seat of the pew beside him, and the air stirred softly. He heard the faintest sounds as his visitor departed. At the back of the church, the big doors opened and closed. Sands waited for a moment before reaching to investigate. A cell phone. Great. Nothing like having a maniac on speed dial.   
  
"Senor Sands?" He jumped, not having heard Manolo's sneakered approach. Being startled twice within an hour did his morale no good at all. God, he needed a smoke.... 


	5. Disciple

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: Sometimes a cigarette is not just a cigarette. Sometimes it's a wake-up call. And some old dogs learn new tricks, too....

* * *

**5. Disciple**  
  
Four days later, Sands's new cell phone rang for the first time. He was pacing the garage the long way, wondering when Manolo would get there. According to the talking clock feature, it was after 1100 and he was hoping to go find one of his old contacts today. On Fridays, the guy in question would be at the barber shop around 1300. It was just a question of getting there.   
  
When the electronic rendition of "La Cucharacha" began to play, he snatched up the phone. "Sands here."   
  
"Be at the southeast corner of the central plaza in one hour."  
  
The line went dead. Fuck! Scratch plan A. Could he make it to the plaza in an hour? By himself? He didn't have a hell of a lot of choice, did he?   
  
Sands had already mastered the trail to the back gate of the garden; go out the back door of the shed for eight paces, then turn to ten o'clock in time to avoid that damn scratchy bouganvilla. It was eighteen strides along the path to the curve that led to the back gate, with a tree root right around step nine that you wanted to be careful of.   
  
The back gate itself still squealed; he'd left it that way as an early warning system. Closing it now behind him, he counted four paces to the brick walls of the alleyway. There was usually a trash can a few yards down on the lefthand side, so he stayed to the right, letting his knuckles brush against the brick for reference. This would be his first solo farther than the newsstand, which was in the opposite direction from where he needed to go. He knew where the plaza was; back when he'd had eyes, he'd spent hours studying maps of Culican in preparation for the coup. (He knew alleyways and cul-de-sacs that he'd never laid eyes on. And never will, now, he reminded himself.)   
  
Okay, this way. 'Scuse me. So sorry. (Nice tits, lady.) Well, that's a damn stupid place for a mailbox. Hey, asshole, slow down, you'd be amazed what it'll do for your insurance rates. Do they have any level sidewalks in this goddam town at all? Yes, I am blind, fuckmook, what's it to you? God so help me, lady, if that dog comes near me, I'll shoot the fucking thing, and you, too.   
  
By the time he reached the plaza, Sands was tense but triumphant. He still had fifteen minutes left to orient himself and figure out which was the southeast corner. Over there, by the taco vendor....he found an unoccupied bench and sat down with a sensation of immense satisfaction, which soon cooled. "Pretty lame," his mind jeered. "Walking six whole blocks by yourself? Wow, that's really an accomplishment for a guy who used to wreak havoc across most of Europe." And look at where that got you, he reminded himself. The Agency got tired of your antics, and shipped your ass down here.   
  
Still, he'd made it; it was a milestone in his new life. He debated the merits of a celebratory cigarette. With limited funds--using plastic would've been flagged the company for sure--he'd restricted smokes to two a day, but right now, it would sure taste sweet. What the hell, at least he could afford Manolo's damn gum.  
  
"Let's move it, Lucifer."   
  
Sands rose from the bench and followed the pad of footsteps. "Get in." It was a jeep, and Sands climbed into the passenger seat without a word. He knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he concentrated on where they might be going. Calling up the map of Culiacan in his head, he knew they were heading out of town, and he was pretty sure of which road they were taking. After a few minutes, they slowed and hung a left onto an unpaved side road. Industrial park, Sands thought. Warehouses, light industry, the source of lots of cheap "Made in Mexico" souveniers.   
  
Suddenly, the air pressure changed. Sands heard the rattle of a garage door coming down behind them as the jeep's engine shut off. He emerged from the jeep, tracking his way across the garage--his bootheels echoed on concrete. The place was big enough for several other vehicles, by the sound of it. A door opened. His hands found the wall first; the door was slightly to his left. This room was smaller. Overhead was a soft buzz of fluorescent light strips. Sands closed the door behind him and took his bearings.   
  
"This room is a square. There are shelves on the lefthand wall, a table directly across from the door" --which was where the speaker's voice came from-- "and another table halfway along the righthand wall, about a meter out. Go over there."   
  
Sands complied. 'Halfway' was a relative term, since he didn't know how big the room was. Smaller than the garage outside, but bigger than the one he'd been living in. He reached the steel-topped table after six steps, hands cautiously exploring the surface. There were a number of hollow metal cylinders in a shallow cardboard box, two heavy boxes that rattled metallically, a cigar box, much lighter than the first two, and two gallon-sized metal cans. A rectangular plastic box with low sides--empty--held an assortment of hand tools.   
  
"Now then, Lucifer." The voice was right beside him, unnervingly close. "Here's what you're going to do. First, take one of these--" His hand was guided to one of the boxes "---and put it on the end of this, tightly---" Putting caps on the end of metal cylinders? Oh shit. Don't let this be what I think it is.   
  
One of the cans scraped aginst the table, and Sands caught an acrid whiff. Shit. It was. "Fill this measure to here. Over the tray, don't spill it. Level it off. That's enough for one unit. If there's any left over in the measure, you didn't use enough."  
  
"You're asking a blind man to help you build pipe bombs?" he blurted before he could stop himself.  
  
"I'm expecting a man who asked for my help to contribute some time and effort of his own. Alternate powder with the nails in the other box. Pack it down firmly with this dowel. Leave enough room for the detonators. I'll show you how to do those when you have all the units made." Then he was left alone with the componants.  
  
Sands was in a clammy sweat for the first twenty minutes. The room was cool enough; what he was being told to do was what scared the bejesus out of him. Units? Fucking bombs. If there was any consolation, it was that there was enough power here to kill him outright, reduce him to a smear on the wall if something went wrong.   
  
There were two dozen of the cylinders; by the time he'd managed four or five, Sands was intent on the process and somewhat more relaxed. The smell reminded him of the shooting range, one of his favorite parts of training. Building bombs. Christ, what a milestone. Not one Sands wanted to take pride in; he'd witnessed the aftermath of a car bombing in Athens and knew what a device like this could do to innocent lives. Cartel mooks, now, he could dig that....   
  
"Not a good idea, Lucifer. Filthy habit."   
  
Sands tensed, then tucked the cigarettes back into his shirt pocket. Where were his fucking brains? Annoyed that his straying thoughts and nicotine addiction had just made him look like a total monkey, he fished out a package of Manolo's gum instead. Focusing on the task at hand, he continued to work as his humiliation slowly subsided. Talk about your stupid rookie mistakes!  
  
Concentrating on what he was doing, Sands assembled the remaining units. He waited, knowing that the most he could hope for was not to be critized. Inspection was thorough. Listening carefully, he counted each unit as it was moved picked up and put back down. There was no comment; that was a good sign. "Now about these detonators...you can't make any mistakes here, period." This time he could feel the supervision at close range, practically breathing down his neck. "That has to be crimped tighter. You don't want it working loose, believe me. Careful with the adhesive, you don't need much." Eight of the units were completed before Sands was allowed to work without the vigilant presence beside him.   
  
"Okay, that should take care of things for today. There's something I've been meaning to mention. Your shadow, the little street rat. He's a danger to us."   
  
Without any conscious thought on Sands's part, the pistol was in his first. "No."  
  
"We can't afford--"  
  
"I said no!" Sands roared, too angry to edit his words or tone. "That is not a fucking option!" Half a step brought the pistol into contact with its target. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for that kid. Don't even think about fucking with him!"   
  
Laughter echoed from the walls. "My, my. It sounds to me as if they took your eyes and left you with a conscience in exchange. I'm not sure that was such a great deal, Lucifer. Inconvenient things, consciences."   
  
An old and bitter argument on the subject flickered through his mind. Back then, he'd been the one arguing that certain people were expendable, and had felt justified in carrying out their deaths personally. His actions had provoked conflict, and now Sands was sickened by the thought that his youthful ruthlessness might cost Manolo's life.   
  
"Put that away. It's good to know that you've finally learned to discern the difference between targets and human beings."   
  
Sands holstered the gun. "I deserved that," he admitted, calmer. "Maybe being a target yourself does that to you."   
  
"Indeed." Footsteps, and the door to the garage opened. "Let's be off, shall we?"   
  
After being dropped back off at the same corner of the plaza, Sands pitched his remaining smokes into the nearest trash can. Somehow, the thought of craving them made him a little queasy. 


	6. Miraculous

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: Sands on why "Sheldon" is a perfectly acceptable name, and an old acquaintance re-surfaces.

* * *

**6. Miraculous**  
  
Over the course of the next several days, Sands found himself assembling a variety of gadgetry, from exploding crossbow bolts to bang sticks. His question as to whether or not all this was going to be necessary to take out the cartel was met with the response that one could always use a few spares now and again. He nodded; the thought of being used as free labor didn't bother him...much. Discovering that there was something he could do well, even in his current condition, was, to use a word from one of those cheesy daytime talk shows, empowering.   
  
He was tired of being addressed as Lucifer, but figured as long as it wasn't shortened to "Luci", he'd live with it. He'd prefer Sands, or Sheldon in a pinch, but he drew the line at Luci. Funny how people automatically assumed he hated his given name. What made Sheldon a less desirable name than, oh, Shaun? Or Steve? He'd known a few Shauns (of one spelling or another), and a plethora of Steves, but he'd never met another Sheldon, not even the uncle he was named for, dead since before he was born. It was a little like protective camouflage. People heard the name "Sheldon", and right away, they assumed he was a geek, not a badass. Several of them hadn't survived that mistake.   
  
On Wednesday of the following week, Sands sensed a difference when he walked into the workroom. It seemed to have shrunk, somehow. He cocked his head, listening.   
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
"Something's different."  
  
"What?"  
  
Sands stamped his feet experimentally. "Less of an echo. Like there's something big in the middle of the room."   
  
"Excellant! And you could tell that from the sound alone? Very good. Very good indeed."   
  
Moving carefully forward, Sands found a large table or tables pushed together in the center of the room. He reached out, only to encounter a variety of shapes that at first made no sense to his mind. Then it dawned on him. "Scale model?"   
  
"The cartel has a compound, which I've located. The perimeter--"   
  
Sands felt a rush of exultation. He listened carefully, repeating, asking questions, about angles, terrain, defenses. His tactical mind was reawoke and soaked it all in. It was going to happen. He was going to bring them down....  
  
"Now, I think you'll find this interesting. Take off your glasses."   
  
He tensed as earpieces grazed his temples. There was something odd about them, they had little clamshell-shaped pieces that hovered slightly in front of his ears. The frames that settled on the bridge of his nose were much heavier than ordinary sunglasses, and he could feel a stiff plastic strip being secured at the back of his head. "What's this?" He traced the outline of a pair of wraparound glasses so large they reminded him of safety goggles.   
  
"Try not to smudge the receptors. It's a shiny new state-of-the-art personal self-contained sonar. Listen." There was a click, and sound made the room spring to life around him. A little like a high-quality surround-sound system, it differed in that the sound was being produced by the location of objects in his vicinity. He walked around the room slowly, discovering the different tones for heights, pitches denoting distance.   
  
"Here's the remote. On and off, volume control. It's accurate up to about ten feet. It detects drop-offs in the low end or overhangs in the upper range. The rear sensors are less sensitive--you'll know if something is incoming, but not necessarily from which side. The sides are your weak point, but I'm sure you'll learn to compensate. You seem to have a certain knack, even without the gear."   
  
Sands spent the next two days practicing with the gear. There were some limitations, as he found when he strode confidantly out of the garage and walked into the bouganvilla--something as light as a twig or thin branch barely registered, which meant things like tripwires would be a hazard, or a small thrown object could strike him before he had a chance to react to the incoming signal. However, for independant movement, the sonar system was a godsend. It wasn't the same as seeing, of course, but it made navigating considerably easier. Combing Culiacan, he practiced negotiating flights of stairs, threaded his way through crowds in the marketplace, stepped aside for other pedestrians approaching behind him. He stopped bumping into things; learned to distinguish the slight change in pitch that warned of curbs and changes of level.   
  
The second day, he sought out Manolo. The boy's disappearence concerned him; he didn't think it was tied in with his colleague, but until he knew for certain, Sands would worry.   
  
Uncle Pablo's newstand--that was how he thought of it, after hearing Manolo talk about it so much--was an easy stroll from Sands's hideout. Manolo had brought him there several times, so Uncle Pablo recognised him. "You're that American. You're looking for my nephew?"   
  
"Yes, he hasn't been around lately, I was hoping he's all right."  
  
"Yes, he's all right. He's in school, where a boy his age belongs. I've put my foot down, he's going to get the education that I'm paying taxes for! The school has orders to call me if he's absent. I won't permit any more of his truancy."   
  
Sands smiled broadly. "You're absolutely right, Manolo's a very smart kid, I'm sure he's going to go far. I just wanted to thank him for all his help, he's been a good guide while I was getting my bearings in your beautiful city. Maybe you could give him these?" He held out the old pair of RayBans that had seen so much.   
  
"Si." The other man took the glasses. Sands paid for a box of gum, took one package, and left the rest. What the hell, the least he could do was give the kid a little more capital.   
  
Strolling down the street, he was surprised to hear Christmas music coming from somebody's radio. He'd had so much on his mind that he was startled to realize that it was the middle of December. Unlike his native country, where Christmas promotions began about ten minutes after Labor Day, Mexico actually celebrated the season in December. "Not that I give a rat's ass," he told himself. "Christmas, Channukah, Kwaanza--it's all hype." Deep down, though, there was one holiday that would always resonate...November second, the Day of the Dead.   
  
He was thinking of the Day of the Dead as his brain responded to tones that heralded someone's rapid arrival behind him, and he turned an instant before he was actually hailed. "Sands!"  
  
"Ramirez." He'd been dazed and bleeding against a wall for their last meeting.  
  
"Hey, you're looking a lot better," the retired FBI man said approvingly. "I thought you were a goner, last time I saw you. Where the hell did you disappear to, anyway?"   
  
Sands shrugged. "Had to go take care of business."   
  
"Whew. Couple gunshot wounds and a hell of a concussion, and you're worried about taking care of business?"  
  
Concussion? Ramirez didn't know--still didn't realize he was blind. The thought made him smile. "I'm all about taking care of business," he said easily. "What have you been up to, Jorge? Still retired?"   
  
The other man hesitated. "Maybe we could talk about it over drinks?" he suggested.   
  
"I've got time."   
  
They found a booth at the back of a local watering hole and ordered tequilas. Ramirez began to outline what he'd heard about the new cartel that was moving in. Sands questioned him extensively. Most of it dovetailed with what Sands already knew, but he noted a few points his briefing hadn't covered. It pleased him to know he was providing some fresh information for the op.   
  
"The Federales are staying out of it," Ramirez concluded. "The coup hurt them badly, especially when they found out one of their own agents was Barillo's daughter."  
  
"I heard about that." Sands smiled to himself. "But she's dead now."   
  
"Yeah, and now they're all looking at each other, wondering who else they can't trust. Everybody's afraid of the man next to them."   
  
"So everybody's waiting for somebody else to make the first move."  
  
"That's it."   
  
"That's fucked up."  
  
"Yeah, it is. Here, I'll get that." The retired agent slid out of the booth. Bills fluttering to the table hissed slightly in Sands's ears. "Maybe you can let the boys at Langley know, okay?"   
  
Sands's lip curled. "Right." Minutes later, he initiated an outgoing call on his cell phone.   
  
"Millenium Consulting."   
  
"Sands here."  
  
"One moment...go ahead."   
  
Sands outlined his findings.   
  
"Good work. I'll take that into account. How's the PSCS working?"  
  
"The gear's brilliant. Ramirez didn't even realize I'm blind, he just thinks I had a really bad concussion."   
  
"Don't let pride blind you, Lucifer." The line went dead. 


	7. Lighting A Candle

Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: Conclusion: Almost titled "The Whole Damn Show", but I was kinda going for a theme. Firefight!

* * *

**7. Lighting A Candle**  
  
Entering the workroom the next morning, the gear added a new tone to its range. Sands had barely closed the door behind him when a silvery note struck his ears. "What the hell?" It sounded like a wind chime, or a tuning fork--not unpleasant, but distinctive.   
  
He walked toward it, skirting a table and avoiding something about knee high--a box? He began playing hot and cold with objects on the shelves at the left rear corner of the room. Then his hands encountered a battered leather jacket hanging from a nail on one of the upright supports, and the tone went crazy.   
  
"Okay, I'll bite. What the hell is it?"   
  
"Contact button on the collar. A little refinement, so you don't accidentally blow my brains out thinking I'm someone else."   
  
The old Sands had a retort wound up and ready for a fastball pitch, but the new Sands let it go. "Good idea."   
  
"We strike in two days. They're going to be loading a shipment for distribution. If we hit then, we get the lab, the product, the transport--the whole damn show."   
  
Two days! Sands studied the model of the compound from all angles, and rehearsed the timing. He paced off distances in the big garage bay, choreographing his moves. He began to distinguish subtle nuances from the gear--metallic objects, even things like barbed wire or a chain-link fence--buzzed with a pitch that was ever-so-slightly different from wood or brick. He cleaned his guns, making certain the spare clips were filled and accessible, practiced with the tools he'd need. Anticipation was sweet wine.   
  
Almost before it seemed possible, the jeep was jouncing along a rough back road that would bring them within hiking distance of the compound. Sands felt the tension in his thighs. His pulse beat a little more swiftly, but he was mostly aware of the thrill adreneline brought. This is nothing, he thought. Just give it another two hours, then things are really going to get interesting.   
  
They were virtually silent on the hike in. When they reached the agreed location, Sands readied his weaponry and the tools in the satchel slung over his shoulder. "I'll signal when I'm in position," his companion muttered, and the silver note faded into the trees. The outer fence was only yards away.   
  
Sands waited, his senses straining. Faint chemical odors from the facility drifted on the breeze. A distant piece of equipment beeped as it reversed. There was a boom, explosive, not industrial. He quivered, expecting the signal. The fence? Was it his imagination, or was the current no longer flowing thru it?   
  
His cell phone began to vibrate. The generators were down. He switched it off, then on again. With steady hands, he found the nearest upright to the chain-link fence and began cutting a way in. As soon as that was done, he changed the attachment on the chuck to the one he'd need to b&e the lab and eased the driver back into his satchel.  
  
At the second signal, he entered the gap in the fence, staying low, counting, listening. He grinned widely as multiple bangs signalled surveillance being blow to hell. Save a few for me, he thought.   
  
The main gate presented itself, the wooden guard shack warbling in his ears. Sands flicked the countdown switch on the unit, rolled it gently toward the shack, and ran like hell back the way he'd come. His ears rang in the explosion's aftermath, and he laughed, filled with joy to be alive and doing exactly what he was doing at this moment in time.   
  
Through a thick cloud of cordite smoke, he strode into the darkened compound, hearing shouts from the cartel mooks. Something large and metallic--a truck--presented itself, and Sands tossed a unit into the back, moving rapidly toward the main facility. Another truck was approaching--fast--he did a tuck and roll maneuver and amazed by how natural it felt. Timing prompted him to shield his head as the first truck blew. The force of the blast sent the other truck tumbling--Sands was certain it had gone directly over his head--and there was a rush of heat that made him scramble to his feet and race for the building ahead of him.   
  
Shrill voices, nearby. He pulled out his pistols and listened. Off to his left. That was where their big bay was, where they'd be loading the product. The other end of the building was the factory, with offices on either side of the middle section. The bay, wide enough for six vehicles at a time, was the only way in on this side. Footsteps ran past, a few yards away, and he heard gunshots.   
  
The sound of truck engines, parked facing out, reminded Sands that their lights were independant of the rest of the compound. Throwing himself down, he crawled from the doorway to beneath the farthest big truck and worked his way back. By the sound of it, most of the workers were in the back half of the bay, rapidly loading the trucks as security was kept busy outside. Working quickly, he pulled a unit from the satchel slung over his shoulder and set the timer at ten minutes. He slithered from truck to truck, repeating the procedure. Once a worker passed within inches of him as he crossed from one vehicle to the next. Sands remained motionless, and the man, squinting in the dimness, kept going.   
  
Sands was preparing to start shooting from cover when there was a tremendous kaboom that made the whole compound tremble. That would be the fuel tanks at the motor pool. Sands took advantage of the confusion to loose a barrage of gunfire, listening happily as chaos reigned in the bay. There were running footsteps and several doors slammed, including the one to the truck he was lying under. He sneezed at the cloud of exhaust gases as the engine reved, keeping his head down as the vehicle began to move.   
  
As soon as his concealment had moved past the length of his prone body, Sands bounced up, pistols in hand, and made for the lab side of the building. With half of the trucks gone, the space would be even darker, he knew, so the odds of anyone singling him out in the middle of the hysteria going on were marginal. Staying alert for anyone approaching, he found the gap between the offices and hurried down the short corridor.   
  
Although the whine of the drill seemed loud to him, it wasn't so loud that he didn't hear the tone of someone approaching behind him. The hallway was narrow enough that he could pinpoint the oncoming thug as soon as he turned. One quick shot, one less thug. Being effectively backed into a corner with the only way out a locked door behind him, Sands alternated shooting mooks and drilling the lock for long minutes. He was amused to realize he had a boner--God, what was it about shootouts that always did that to him? The door to the lab swung inward, and Sands darted inside.   
  
Unchallenged, Sands had the lab to himself long enough to scatter the remaining units, strategically, set at two minutes. The trouble began when he tried to leave the room. The mooks were waiting for him, remaining in the bay and using the corners of the offices for cover.   
  
Okay, time to get messy. He dug into the satchel for something he'd hoped he'd get to use. One flash grenade, coming up. He gave it a gentle underhand toss, letting it roll down the hall. Heard loud curses, a bang, lots of screaming. That sounded promising. Sands exited the lab fast, having just used up nearly half of his safety margin.   
  
Bolting out into the bay, he side-stepped one hysterical thug who was screaming that he couldn't see. "Sucks, don't it?" he muttered in passing. But what the fuck, the effects would probably wear off if the guy lived that long. It wasn't like he'd ripped anybody's eyes out. Sands grinned savagely; the temptation to shoot these particular fish in this particular barrel was strong--but that lab was gonna blow, and he wanted at least a hundred yards between him and it when it did.  
  
He nearly made it. He was running flat out across the compound to the gate when the first of the trucks, the one still parked at the far end of the bay, blew the roof off. Sands hit the ground as debris showered down around him. He tried to get up, but the ground gave way beneath him and he fell again. Momentarily disoriented, his ears ringing as another truck blew--that was close--Sands got his bearings and realized he was in the crater where the guard shack had been. Circumnavigating it, he took a half dozen strides down the corridor between the fences when the lab went up. The shockwave threw him against the far fence.   
  
He grabbed the mesh to stay upright; ribs, he thought. Hell, at least this time it's not bulletholes. Sands wasn't sure if the gear was still working or not, because his ears seemed to have left the scene of the crime. No, he could faintly hear his own rasping breaths. With an effort, he jogged toward the escape route, counting. For a minute, he thought he'd passed it, then he caught a familiar crystalline tone from the gear.   
  
"Nice work, Lucifer."  
  
"You too."   
  
The hike out was accomplished in half the time, since they didn't have to worry about surveillance. They didn't drive back the way they'd come; Sands could feel the jeep climbing. "Where the hell are we?"   
  
"On a promontory overlooking the scene of our triumph. Beneath us, the conflagration rages, great gouts of flame reach into the midnight sky, billowing black clouds stream forth to heaven. Tonight is the longest night of the year, and together we have lit a fine sacrificial fire to bring back the light!" An unearthly howl rose from the seat beside him. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light!"  
  
That was one way of looking at it, Sands supposed, who mentally toasted marshmallows over the blaze. Damned pagan lunatic. He still felt euphoric---exhausted---but euphoric. That would wane soon enough; tomorrow he was gonna hurt like hell. He switched the gear off, leaned his head back, and didn't wake until the moving jeep gave a lurch that made his ribs protest.   
  
Was it enough? Would the cartels get the message and leave his adopted city alone? Sands hoped so.  
  
Before long, they were pulling into Culiacan. "You're in front of the Cathedral."   
  
"Thanks for everything." On impulse he extended his hand. It was clasped in a firm grip and a hand rested momentarily on his forearm.  
  
"Any time, Sands. Oh, and you might find this useful. I found it in a limo on the way to the fuel tanks. It ought to keep you in puerco pibil for a while." Sands accepted the suitcase, switched the gear back on, and climbed out of the jeep. "You've got my number!" he heard over the sound of the departing engine.   
  
Sands stood in the shadow of the Cathedral for a moment, the steps leading up to the great doors rippling like a waterfall to the gear. He could always go in, light a candle...no, he'd set enough fires tonight. He'd get a hotel room, at a decent hotel this time, and in the morning...well, let he'd see how badly he was hurting. Meanwhile, there was nothing on the breeze but a faint perfume of incense from midnight mass.   
  
Sands began to walk, leisurely, toward the center of the city. He couldn't see, but he knew where he was going.   
  
FINITO! 


End file.
